He's fine.

We had a long hot walk in the morning in the eastern expanse to find the proper place to excrete, and a long walk into the western field in the evening. He followed scent trails everywhere.

So it was a good day for him. He got a big treat when I left, and yes, he whined, but I came back and his happiness was total. We went outside to his patch of grass and he worked on a stick from his collection, and then we went in for a nap. That was his day; mine was rewriting a short story, finishing up the National Review online column, doing a radio interview, the gym, and a desultory trip to Target.

Ever mindful of the Food Budget, I stood in the meat department and did some honest appraisal of the likelihood I would find gratifying happiness if I bought the Hot Sausage. It was the house brand, right next to the Johnsonville brand, and it was $1.50 cheaper. Whenever I see that, I think of the packages coming out of the shrink-wrap machine, and there's a fork in the conveyor belt: one side goes to the premium brand with a complicated and exuberant label that signals discernment; the other goes to the house brand, where a machine slaps on a label that signals a lower price.

(All this takes place while Powerhouse plays on the soundtrack)

I put it in the cart, but then I thought about it. I've been through this before. I cook it up, put the gristly nubbins in eggs. It's absolutely and completely okay. The rest goes in a container, and I go through it without enthusiasm for the rest of the week. I'm more likely to find satisfaction with these Jimmy Dean sausages, except they're not as good as Smithfield, except I am mad at Smithfield because they sold everything to China, but it doesn't really matter because douse the sausage with one of my hot sauces so it might as well be made of woodchip-dust held together with some binding agent made of seaweed.

I put it back. $4.39 saved! All the while I'm doing some bile processing, because I'm feeling the hangover from the previous evening's dog worries, and thinking, someday. And everything just feels so much lonelier, and all this is so very very needless.

But that is not today, and today's actually okay.

I'm happier than I look here. We just had a great walk. Nothing bad happened. One more in the ledger; on to the next.

I wouldn’t make you look at blown-up pictures of Woolworth shopping floors for another week. That would be repetitive - and if I had that much material, obviously I could’ve gotten a hiatal Bleat out of it. (Actually, I’m regretting that I didn’t.) No, this week’s Almost Hiatal material is something completely different. Kress!

The annual reports have the same cover, and they show the old flagship store in New York. It was demolished in 1980, and everyone involved in planning that atrocity should writhing in hell. For a while, anyway. Not eternity. That would be excessive. In 1947 the reports put a new building on the cover:

Kress was noted for its generous architecture. There wasn’t any particular style; as long as it had the distinctive Kress logo, that was fine. Or even if it didn’t. Many buildings survived, and I suspect it was downtown economic doldrums that saved them. Nothing was going on downtown, so why demolish it?

This is a perfect Moderne example:

And a perfect example of why I think trees are overrated as downtown features.

I mean, it looks as if it’s trying to hide out of shame.

In the 50s, they decided to go dull:

One Facebook group about the city's history had a picture of the logo in the back of the store, and it led to this exchange.I don’t mean to dunk on the guys, but C’mon.

Do people do that? Ask the simplest questions in a Facebook thread when the answer is one google-search away? And no, it wasn’t a local place with the same name; the logo is the national Kress logo.

Anyway. Couldn’t find it.

Eventually they were purchased by a company that decided they'd take a new direction. You know what this means, don't you:

Off to the burbs. While I love the illustration, that’s the beginning of the end. I think K-Mart ate them alive out there. The chain closed for good in 2001, which surprised me. I thought it would’ve been much later.

It’s 1946.

The use of script type in headlines is unusual, for this era. At least in my experience.

They were keeping a keen eye on these stats.

The editorial page had a syndicated books feature.

Let’s take a look at the tomes of the day.

		No American Brother would have that name.

Crackerjack first effort! He'd write four more. That wasn't his real name, though. What a career:

John Robert Furneaux Jordan (10 April 1905 Birmingham – 14 May 1978 Burcombe, Wiltshire) was an English architect, architectural critic and novelist. He worked as an architect from 1928 to 1961, after which he became an academic, broadcaster and lecturer, writing many books on architecture.

A son of the prominent surgeon John Furneaux Jordan, Robert Jordan was educated at West House Preparatory School from 1915 to 1918 and then King Edward's School, Birmingham from 1918 to 1922. He studied at the Birmingham School of Art for three years before going to the Architectural Association School in 1926.

		He turned ‘em out at a good clip.

Remembered today is putting it charitably:

Ernest Robertson Punshon (born East Dulwich, London 25 June 1872 – died Streatham, London 23 October 1956) was an English novelist and literary critic of the early to mid 20th century. Primarily writing on crime and deduction, he enjoyed some literary success in the 1930s and 1940s. Today, he is remembered, in the main, as the creator of Police Constable Bobby Owen, the protagonist of many of Punshon's novels, who was eventually promoted to sergeant, inspector, superintendent and, finally, commander. A popular Scotland Yard detective, Owen appeared in 35 novels from 1933 to 1956.

 

		It’s nothing but Brits in this game, it seems.

So many murders in quaint places:

John Richard Newton Chance (1911 – 3 August 1983), who wrote as John Lymington, was born in London. He was a prolific writer of short stories, children's literature, mystery and science fiction novels. An obituary credits Lymington with writing over 150 novels, 'including 20+ SF potboilers', adding that he 'made a steady income by delivering thrillers to Robert Hale (the publisher) at a chapter a week.”

Also:

Whilst certain of his adult novels enjoyed wide success and translation, he is also fondly remembered for the 'Bunst' children's series, starring eccentric inventor Audacious Cotterell and his youthful sidekick, Bunst (a contraction of his nickname, Bunstuffer).

My ten-foot pole is in the closet, and I'm leaving it there.

		Not another Brit, I hope:

Yes, another Brit.

Arthur William Upfield (1 September 1890 – 12 February 1964) was an English-Australian writer, best known for his works of detective fiction featuring Detective Inspector Napoleon "Bony" Bonaparte of the Queensland Police Force, a mixed-race Indigenous Australian. His books were the basis for a 1970s Australian television series entitled Boney, as well as a 1990 telemovie and a 1992 spin-off TV series.

That's 1970s, allright.

		Archaic, and charming, nomenclature in the births department.

That will do. Outtakes at the Substack today, for paying customers - with the debut of El Soretoe. Thank you, as ever, for your patronage.